And it seemed that must be soon because Harfleur stood undefeated, the army of England was dying of disease, and the year was inexorably passing. It was already September. In a few weeks the autumn rains would come, and the cold would come, and the harvest would be safely gathered behind fortress walls, and so the campaign season would end. Time was running out.
England had gone to war. And she was losing.
That evening Thomas Evelgold tossed a big sack to Hook. Hook jerked aside, thinking the sack would flatten him, but it was surprisingly light and merely rolled off his shoulder. “Tow,” Evelgold said in explanation.
“Tow?”
“Tow,” Evelgold said, “for fire arrows. One sheaf of arrows for each archer. Sir John wants it done by midnight, and we’re to be down in the trench before dawn. Belly’s boiling pitch for us.” Belly was Andrew Belcher, Sir John’s steward who supervised the kitchen servants and sumpters. “Have you ever made a fire arrow?” Evelgold asked.
“Never,” Hook confessed.
“Use the broadheads, tie a fistful of tow up by the head, dip it in pitch and aim high. We need two dozen apiece.” Evelgold carried more sacks to the other groups while Hook pulled out handfuls of the greasy tow, which was simply clumps of unwashed fleece straight off the sheep’s back. A flea jumped from the wool and vanished up his sleeve.
He divided the tow into seventeen equal sections and each of his archers divided their share into twenty-four, one lump of fleece for each arrow. Hook cut up some spare bowstrings and his men used the lengths of cord to bind the bouquets of dirty wool to the arrowheads, then they lined up by Belly’s cauldron to dip the tow into the boiling pitch. They propped the arrows upright against tree stumps or barrels to let the sticky pitch solidify. “What’s happening in the dawn?” Hook asked Evelgold.
“The French kicked our arses this morning,” Evelgold said grimly, “so we have to kick theirs tomorrow morning.” He shrugged as if he did not expect to achieve much. “You lose any more men today?”
“Cobbett and Fletch. Matson can’t last long.”
Evelgold swore. “Good men,” he said grimly, “and dying, for what?” He spat toward a campfire. “When the pitch is dry,” he went on, “tease it out a bit. It lets it catch the fire easier.”
The camp was restless all night. Men were carrying faggots to the forward trench nearest to the enemy’s barbican. The faggots were great bundles of wood, bound with rope, and the sight of them made it clear enough what was intended at dawn. A flooded ditch protected the barbican and it would need to be filled if men were to cross and assault the battered fortress.
Sir John’s men-at-arms were ordered to put on full armor. Thirty men-at-arms had sailed from Southampton Water on the day the swans had flown low through the fleet to signify good fortune, but only nineteen were now fit to serve. Six had died, the other five were vomiting and shitting and shivering. The fit men-at-arms were being helped by squires and pages who buckled plates of armor over padded leather jerkins that had been wiped with grease so the shrouding metal would move easily. Sword belts were strapped over jupons, though most men-at-arms chose to carry poleaxes or shortened lances. A priest from Sir William Porter’s household heard confessions and gave blessings. Sir William was Sir John’s closest friend and also his brother-in-arms, which meant they fought side by side and had sworn to protect each other, to ransom each other if, by misfortune, either were taken prisoner, and to protect the other man’s widow if either were to die. Sir William was a studious-looking man, thin-faced and pale-eyed. His hair, before he hid it with a snout-visored helm, was thinning. He seemed out of place in armor, as though his natural home was a library or perhaps a courtroom, but he was Sir John’s chosen battle companion and that spoke volumes about his courage. He adjusted his helmet and pushed up the visor before nodding a nervous greeting to Sir John’s archers.
Those archers were armored and armed. Most men, like Hook, wore a padded haubergeon sewn with metal plates over a mail coat. They had helmets and a few had aventails, the hood of mail that was worn beneath the helmet and fell across the shoulders. Their bow arms were protected by bracers, they wore swords and carried three arrow bags, two of which contained the tow-headed fire arrows. Some chose to carry an ax as well as a bow, but most, like Hook, preferred the poleax. All the men, whether lords, knights, men-at-arms, or archers, wore the red cross of Saint George on their jupons.
“God be with you,” Sir William saluted the archers, who murmured a dutiful response.
“And the devil take the French!” Sir John called as he strode from his tent. He was in a high mood, the prospect of action giving his eyes a gleam. “It’s a simple enough job this morning!” he said dismissively. “We just have to take the barbican away from the bastards! Let’s do it before breakfast!”
Melisande had given Hook a lump cut from a flitch of bacon and a piece of bread, which he ate as Sir John’s company filed downhill toward the siege-works. It was still dark. The wind was brisk and cool from the east, bringing the scent of the salt marshes to cut the cloying smell of the dead. The arrows clattered in their bags as the archers followed the winding paths. Fires glowed in the siege lines, and on the defenses of Harfleur where, Hook knew, the garrison would be repairing the damage done during the previous day. “God bless you,” a priest called as the bowmen filed past, “God be with you! God preserve you!”
The French must have sensed something evil was brewing for they used a pair of catapults to lob two light carcasses across the ramparts. The carcasses were great balls of cloth and tinder soaked in pitch and sulfur and they wheeled and sparked as they arced through the night sky, then fell in a great gout of flame that burst bright when the wicker-strapped balls landed. The firelight reflected off helmets in the English trenches and those gleams provoked the crossbowmen on the walls to start shooting. The bolts whispered overhead or thumped into the parapets. Insults were shouted from the walls, but the shouts were half-hearted, as though the garrison was tired and uncertain.
The English trench was crowded. The archers with the fire arrows were ordered to the front, and behind them more archers waited with bundles of faggots. Sir John Holland, the king’s nephew, was in charge of the attack, though again, as when he had led the scouting party ashore before the invasion, he was accompanied by his stepfather, Sir John Cornewaille. “When I give the command,” the younger Sir John said, “the archers will loose fire arrows at the barbican. We want to set it alight!”
Iron braziers had been placed every few yards along the trench. They were heaped with burning sea-coal that gave off pungent fumes.
“Drown them with fire!” Sir John Holland urged the archers, “smoke them out like rats! And when they’re blinded by smoke we fill in the ditch and take the barbican by assault!” He made it sound easy.
The remaining English guns had been loaded with stones coated with pitch. The Dutch gunners waited, their linstocks glowing. Dawn seemed to take forever. The defenders got tired of shooting crossbow bolts and their insults, with their bolts, faded away. Both sides waited. A cockerel crowed in the camp and soon a score of birds was calling. Pageboys carrying spare sheaves of arrows waited in the saps behind the trench where priests were saying mass and hearing confessions. Men took it in turns to kneel and receive the wafers along with God’s blessing. “Your sins are forgiven,” a priest murmured to Hook, who hoped it was true. He had not confessed to Robert Perrill’s murder and, as he took the host, he wondered if that deception would condemn him. He almost blurted out his guilt, but the priest was already gesturing the next man forward so Hook stood and moved away. The wafer stuck to his palate and he said a sudden, silent prayer to Saint Crispinian. Did Harfleur have a guardian saint, he wondered, and was that saint beseeching God to kill the English?